


Being Band Mom and Why It's A Shitty Gig (But Not Really): The Pickles Story

by nathanexplodeme



Category: Metalocalypse
Genre: Alcohol, Drugs, M/M, Maternal Instincts, Platonic Male/Male Relationships, Pre-Canon, Pre-Klok, Slurs, Smoking, Suicidal Ideation, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-10
Updated: 2015-06-10
Packaged: 2018-04-03 18:16:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4110421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nathanexplodeme/pseuds/nathanexplodeme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They weren't even a proper band yet, they hadn't settled on a name or anything, or even exactly what kind of music they would play, they were just a couple of guys living in a shithole apartment, fucking around with amps and smoking pot.</p><p>And yet, Pickles found himself as the band mom once again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Being Band Mom and Why It's A Shitty Gig (But Not Really): The Pickles Story

     Pickles never wanted to be the band mom. He had already gotten a taste of that in his previous band, Snakes n Barrels, and he didn't like it all that much. It was hard to get hammered or laid (or preferably both) when you were worried sick over a band mate overdosing or contracting an STD. The thing with band moms was, you could never protect your band mates as much as you'd like without seeming like an uptight dildo-licking jackass. You'd get snide comments hurled at you through smirking lips (like “Who made you our manager?” or “What crawled up your ass and died?”) and of course, you'd try and laugh it off, and hide that fucking horrific blush that betrayed your facade (just something that came along with being pale as paper), you'd say something like “I'm just lookin' out fer your stupid ass.” And of course (they'd reply with a chorus of “Gaaaay” and) nothing'd change. They would overdose, get addicted, get herpes, crabs, whatever, et cetera et cetera. And you knew it wasn't your fault, they're grown men and so are you, but you just can't help it. And you drink yourself into oblivion when one of them dies after a long battle with AIDS, and in the post-partum fog that keeps you sad and subdued, you hope no one stops you from choking on your own vomit.

      Pickles never wanted to be the band mom. Hell, they weren't even a proper band yet, they hadn't settled on a name or anything, or even exactly what kind of music they would play, they were just a couple of guys living in a shithole apartment, fucking around with amps and smoking pot, and yet, Pickles found himself as the band mom once again. He was the one who made weekly trips to Planned Parenthood three blocks away to get supermarket bags full of free condoms.. He was the one who sifted through every dimebag, holding each nugget up to a lamp, looking for signs of tampering, because ( _holy shit_ these guys were fucking idiots) Nathan just bought weed from any dildo on the street, (he was young he didn't know better, but) Pickles couldn't forgive himself if one of them smoked something laced.

And he was the one who never took his eyes off Magnus, peering at the guitarist making conversation with their bassist, even as he snorted lines of crushed up xanax off old Simon and Garfunkel records (in the great words of Nathan Explosion, “Because why the hell not?!” )It'd been years since Pickles' had had a cock anywhere near his mouth (more than five but no less than ten), but the body language Murderface exuded was beyond a shadow of a doubt that of someone who was in the mood to suck dick. He watched from behind his drum kit when Magnus' hand lingered too long on the small of Murderface's back, from the couch when they all watched Japanese torture flicks on bootlegged VHS tapes and Magnus' fingers trailed absently (and yet with purpose, that _fucking pervert_ ) up the thigh of an unsuspecting, squirming bassist, and from across the room at a house party, when he should be listening to the exaggerated promises of a burgeoning producer, but instead hones in on the older guitarist leading his younger companion into a vacant bedroom to do God knows what (but he knows what, he knows _exactly what_ from the bulge in Magnus' jeans to the flush on Murderface's and the giddy laughter that slips out of him, lubricated by copious amounts of alcohol).

      As a fellow dude, Pickles never wanted to prevent his fellow band mates from getting laid (after all, the phrase was “sex, drugs, and rock and roll,” _in that order_ ), but as the predestined band mom, he was determined to keep Murderface's (perhaps already nonexistent) virginity in tact, based purely on the belief that Magnus was the epitome of a dirtbag, maybe even more so than his brother Seth (which was really saying something, okay!?). Pickles remembered when he was just nineteen and in love (though he'd hoped that enough psychotropics would blur out the memories just a tad), and what it was like getting his heart broken by the man who ruined all other men for him. Regardless how much of an absolute cunt the kid could be at times (more like _all the time_ ), Pickles wasn't heartless. After all, how could a mom hate any of his children?

When he caught the two together for the first time, in the kitchen with their dicks out and their hands up each others' shirts (Murderface keening and panting with Magnus' face lodged into the crook of the former's neck), Pickles reacted like any mother would, and tried to kill Magnus with a variety of plastic kitchen utensils. Unfortunately, the red-head only got in a few shallow stabs with a butter knife before Magnus broke his nose and kicked his freckled ass into the middle of next week (“You bruise like a summer peach,” the man said blankly). Nathan drove him to the hospital, despite Pickles' adamant refusal (“Broken noses are metal as fuck! It means yer a fighter! C'mon Nate'n, we don't even have medical insurance!”), and Skwisgaar stayed with Murderface and Magnus, the latter of which threw a certain drummer's drum set down the fire escape. Skwisgaar called them all repressed American prudes, and Murderface wouldn't come out of his shared bedroom, even with promises of macaroni and cheese.

As soon as Pickles returned home, he was welcomed by a prompt, hearty punch in the gut, courtesy of a William Murderface, who according to Skwisgaar, wasn't on speaking terms with anyone at the moment, let alone Magnus. (“Magnus says dat he's not a homosketchual, and dats Pickle must've seen thems wrong, also if he was tappings dat, Moidaface is too youngs for hims anyway.” He blew lightly on the drying nail polish before letting Nathan retract his hand. “See? Nail polish ams totally brutal. They embalm peoples in dis shit.”)

      A week would go by before Murderface could show his face around Mordhaus again, and when he emerged from his hole, he sported a faint collection of hair on his upper lip. From Pickle's position on the sofa (where he was forced to sleep until Murderface let him in their shared room), he beamed at the young man. Wordlessly, the two smoked bowl after bowl and watched reruns of “In Search Of...” on TV.

Murderface licked his forefinger and dipped the wet end into the scarce pile of crumbs on the lip of Pickles' herb grinder. “Aliensch are fucking wild,” he said, smacking his lips around the bittersweet taste of cannabis.

The drummer choked out a laugh through a heavy mouthful of smoke, the rolling billows pouring from his nostrils. “You could say that again!”

He wiped his fingers on the sofa. His hands were starting to get sweaty. “Why would they want anything to do with humansch? We're all dumb and fucked up,” the younger man muttered. 

Pickles tapped thoughtfully on the bong's bulb before passing it to Murderface. “I dunno, maybe it's one a' those things where it's so bad you can't look away?”

“Soundsch about right.”

Their fingers brushed against each other on the neck of the bong, but neither pulled away. The world was just a little fuzzy (just the way Pickles liked it), and the voice of Leonard Nimoy narrating lapped at the edges. Murderface leaned over to rest his face on Pickles' bony shoulder. “That hit went schtraight to my head, Picklesch,” he giggled,nuzzling against the older man.

Pickles patted Murderface's knee assuringly. "I think you've had enough kid," he laughed warmly. 

"Alright,  _mom_ ," Murderface sneered into the warm skin beneath his cheek. Pickles never wanted to be the band mom, but sometimes, shit just happened. But he wasn't complaining.

**Author's Note:**

> im rlly rlly sick and this is the product of that sorry if it was incoherent :^D


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